


Once I pulled the glass from your mouth

by bastardbones



Category: Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Killing Game (Dangan Ronpa), Blood, Child Neglect, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, Sexual Dysfunction, Shotgunning, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25486066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastardbones/pseuds/bastardbones
Summary: Mondo dies, Daiya doesn't. Somehow, he is expected to live with that.
Relationships: Ishimaru Kiyotaka/Oowada Mondo, Ishimaru Kiyotaka/Owada Daiya, Owada Daiya & Owada Mondo
Comments: 9
Kudos: 86





	Once I pulled the glass from your mouth

**Author's Note:**

> I like characters with minimal screen time, because then you can kinda make them into whoever you want. So this is how I made Daiya.
> 
> Also Taka/Daiya makes me feel things????

His baby brother dies in the middle of the monsoon season. Distantly, from the speaker of the television, the news anchor details a week of muggy weather, a heavy rainfall that will rock the coast and drench the city. It is a fair warning, one that urges citizens to proceed with caution, but reminds them not to fear. A monsoon is only temporary. A monsoon will pass. As though on cue, it begins to pour. 

Daiya has no intention of going out. He has enough booze and weed and pills to last him through a hard week. And the week is hard. His day is a cycle of toking up, pacing his dead brother's bedroom, and drinking to the black abyss. Occasionally, he jerks off on the couch, only to go soft halfway through. He can't get hard the way he used to, the meds make it impossible. Girls, the kind he gets into it with, they don't have the patience for a guy with a soft dick. He can't fuck and it's making him depressed. And isn't that the issue at hand?

He gets to thinking, why take the pills at all?

He tries that for two days. He's smelling Mondo's unwashed shirts and sleeping on his mattress and the wound is too fresh. He recalls how quickly the light faded from his brother's eyes, how he never made it to a hospital, how he died on the street like a stray. How Daiya had held him for the first time as an infant and then the last at eighteen. How can he be expected to cope with that? Recreational drugs and pharmaceutical drugs and he cannot cope. That fat orange bottle glows in the early morning light.

He reckons, why not take the pills? Why not take them all?

He's puking his guts when the doorbell rings. His stomach is purged and the floor is cold and the doorbell rings a second time. A classic tale of suicide, interrupted.

When he wrestles the door open -- damn thing sticks -- he is greeted by a shivering boy in the rain. Kiyotaka is shielding a bouquet of white flowers, his body drenched, his hoodie weighted. He is dressed without regard to the storm, his joggers are wet and his hair is dripping, not an umbrella in sight. His lip trembles.

"I'm here to offer my-" his voice cracks; it seems like he had rehearsed the sentiment, but his emotions betrayed him. He hides his face with a bow of his head. "I'm here to offer my deepest condolences."

He trembles beneath the rainfall. His eyes are wide and red and he extends the armful of flowers. Daiya can only blink. He realizes the kid was _this_ close to discovering his overdosed body in the kitchen.

"Come in, kid," Daiya waves him inside, as if the apartment isn't a slew of dirty laundry and empty beer bottles. He has to rinse the vomit from the sink.

He half expects the kid to refuse and then to never see him again. Or maybe see him again in ten years as the center of a political campaign ad. Either or. Taka steps inside, then silently removes his shoes at the welcome mat, creating a small puddle.

"Please," he offers the flowers, wrapped in twine and cellophane. Daiya absently notes his wrist brace. 

Taka is a good kid, he really is. 

He doesn't own a vase. He drops the bouquet, abandons it on the kitchen counter in search of a towel. When he returns, Taka is still as a statue, pale as one, too, so conscious of the mess he is making. Daiya hands him the towel and Taka accepts it with a shaky grasp. 

"Take this off," Daiya motions at the hoodie. "I'll find ya somethin'."

He rips through the back of his closet, determined to find a shirt small enough for Kiyotaka. He recovers an old band tee, torn at the hem, loose at the neck, ridiculously oversized, before settling on something else. It smells like bud, as does everything else, the stench is embedded into the fibers of his clothes. He tosses the dry outfit on the couch then excuses himself to the kitchen, leaving Taka to change.

A hot spray of water is enough to erase the evidence of stomach bile and sticky pills. It goes down the drain easy, like it was never there at all. He blindly rummages through the cabinets, unfamiliar with the anatomy of his own apartment, before finding a dusty pitcher. It'll have to do. He drops the flowers into their new home. 

A noise pricks his ears. His brain can't decipher it at first, mistaking it for the low warble of the television. He peeks into the living room and sees Taka hovering by the coat rack, squeezing something to his chest. It's Mondo's jacket. He didn't wear that one much; he would leave it there weeks at a time. Taka recognizes it instantly, though. He weeps into the smooth, brown leather, as quietly as he can manage. 

Daiya gives him space. He cracks a can and sits with his back against the fridge. He is two beers in when the crying gets loud. Three when it stops. He wakes up with a foggy head and a dry mouth, no memory of losing consciousness. Outside, the rain has slowed.

He finds Taka asleep on the couch, deceptively at peace. He is clutching that same jacket, curled into it like a blanket, mouth hidden in the folds. Daiya hesitantly pets Taka's head. His hair has dried. 

This is the longest Daiya has ever spent alone with him. He doesn't really know Taka beyond the polite hellos and the small talk. His impression of Kiyotaka is based almost entirely on what Mondo used to say -- and his brother was crazy about this kid. They spent most weekends together, doing whatever they did in the privacy of Mondo's bedroom. Daiya wasn't dense. Mondo had a few flings with a few girls, but they sensed it, too. Daiya wasn't gay and he wasn't bisexual, but sometimes guys looked good and they tasted even better. He was an opportunist. He figured Mondo might be the same way, except Kiyotaka hadn't been a quick thing. The two of them were attached at the hip until about a week ago.

He joins Taka on the couch. The kid shifts in his sleep, nuzzles toward the warmth of Daiya's body. Without thinking, Daiya wraps an arm around him, embraces him. It feels good, maybe because he hasn't held anyone in awhile. His muscles go loose, his headache subsides, as he breathes in and admires how warm and soft and human this kid is.

"Mondo?" 

Kiyotaka looks up with blurry eyes. His eyebrows pull together as he tries to recall reality. Daiya shakes his head.

"Just me."

It should have been him. If anyone should have been scraped off the concrete, it should have been Daiya. Mondo was the youngest, he was the baby of the family. His poor dead mother, his poor dead father - their poor dead son. Were the Oowada's destined for an early end? 

He watches Taka, how his mouth drops with an ugly sound. Uncontrollably, he begins to shake, his body a victim to the sudden wave of sorrow. Daiya shushes him, runs his hand down his back. 

"I know," he coos. The kid deflates, grabs for anywhere or anything, until tangling his fingers into Daiya's, jittered with grief. Daiya simply holds him. "I know, kid."

Taka tries saying something, but the words disintegrate into hard vowels and lost meanings. 

"You meant a lot to my brother. You know that, right?" He shakes Taka, gently for a response. He ignores the way his own voice shatters. "You'll always have a home here. You're family now. You hear me?"

Taka squeezes his eyes shut and nods. The pain unravels throughout him, blinds him with tears, swells the thin skin beneath his eyes. He rocks against the tremors that shoot a current up his spine, violently, so violently. He looks a lot like Daiya that first night, when he couldn't pick himself up off the floor and was fired question after question by the police, by the coroner. Deciding if Mondo would want to donate his organs. His pancreas had burst, his liver was punctured, but his heart was good. Daiya signed off on it, Mondo's blood still on his hands, literally, figuratively. They said his brother had a good heart and he signed off on it.

Eventually, the kid goes limp, crying himself to sleep for a second time. Daiya lifts him without much effort, carries him into Mondo's bedroom and tucks him in. He rubs circles into Taka's back until he wonders why he's doing it. He keeps the door open as he leaves.

Daiya shuffles through a drawer for rolling paper. He doesn't want to sleep, he wants to consume every substance he has, then black out. Sleeping means risking more nightmares of his brother's melting face. With steady hands, he rolls a joint and flicks his lighter. He inhales too fast, eager for the high, and nearly coughs up a lung. His eyes sting and before he can recover, he takes another hit. He stays like that for a while, smoking on his bed, letting his mind drift, hoping to find someplace safe. 

He feels someone watching him. He glances at the hallway, somewhat visible from his corner in the bedroom, but sees nothing. Maybe Taka is awake. He blinks and sees a shape. He blinks and it moves closer. He sees his brother for the briefest moment, pinned to the ceiling. His eyes are white and his chest is peeled open, revealing a black empty cavity. Before Daiya can scream, he is gone. He is gone as soon as he came.

Weed doesn't usually fuck with him like that. He hasn't had a bad trip since he was fourteen. He suspects it's a side effect from the pills he failed to barf, maybe a few are still swimming in his system. He tries shaking off the paranoia, goes slower on the joint.

When he blinks again, he sees a white face framed by dark hair, hovering in his doorway. He nearly crawls out of his skin, before realizing the apparition is Taka. What a timely reappearance.

"Can I stay?" the kid asks. Daiya is unsure if he's asking to stay the night or hang out in his room. 

"Sure, kid," he shrugs. Taka fiddles with his thumbs before shyly stepping forward. Daiya pats a spot on the bed for him and the boy sits, then hugs his knees to his chest. "Sleep good?"

"I-I guess so," Taka stammers. He notices the joint between Daiya's fingers and shifts uncomfortably. 

"You smoke?"

"No," Taka answers quickly.

"Really? Thought you were always blazing with my bro in there." He nods toward the empty bedroom. "Mondo always smoked me out." 

He misses those lazy afternoons with his brother. He misses smoking, rambling about stupid nonsense and gorging on snack food. Sometimes Mondo would conk out right there on the edge of the bed, in mid conversation, and Daiya would laugh. 

"He didn't smoke around me," Taka says, eyes fixed to the floor.

"You were dating, right?" He already knows, of course, but he doesn't know if Taka knows that he knows. The kid gets a panicked look on his face and Daiya snorts. "Don't freak. I ain't mad." 

"Really?" Taka asks with mild disbelief.

"I was sorta relieved, ya know? I thought Mondo might knock up some floozy, but he brought you home instead." He thumbs the loose flint of his lighter before flicking it. The ember on his joint keeps dying. He holds the flame until the metal gets too hot. "It kinda felt like he was my kid. Yeah. I practically raised him."

Daiya thought it was a good thing that his parents passed before they could damage Mondo the way they had damaged him. Maybe that was heartless, to think like that. Daiya loved his parents, of course he did, but they were troubled, they fought over financial matters and matters much too personal for a child to overhear. They were alcoholics, they had been for as long as Daiya could remember. Some of his earliest memories were of his mother, passed out on the couch and his father, comatose in the kitchen. He learned to roll his mother on her side when she drank that much, knew she might vomit and choke in her sleep.

He caught her drinking while she was pregnant with Mondo. Only ten years old and he was scolding his own mother. He had become the man of the house before he ever hit puberty, his father was there, physically he was there, but mentally he had checked out. There were nights his mother begged him to sleep in bed with her and Daiya did, she wept into his arms and he held her, because no one else would. He blamed her when Mondo was born prematurely, blamed her when Mondo struggled in class, when he developed mood swings. He blamed himself for accepting her empty apologies.

"I remember when he was a baby. I remember holding him all the time and whenever my mom took him back, he cried." The memory is bittersweet. He takes a drag, holds it, exhales. "She hated me for that, I swear." 

Taka absently nods. His eyes are glazed over, but he's listening. His eyebrows furrow as he notices the row of pill bottles on Daiya's nightstand. 

"All of those are for you?" the question fades toward the end, as he realizes what he's asking.

"Some doctor said I have PTSD. Know what that means? Means I'm fucked up forever," he scoffs, like that doctor is a moron and the diagnosis doesn't bother him. He realizes that his antidepressants, the ones he downed earlier, are missing from the row. His body trembles in remembrance. He presses his palms against his face, and mournfully, he says, "Shit. What am I gonna do, Kiyotaka?"

The kid slides his hand along the comforter, keeps it there in case Daiya wants to take it. Unsure what to say or do, Taka says, "I'm sorry."

Daiya reaches for Taka, rubs his thumb over the kid's knuckles. He smooths his fingertips along the edge of Taka's brace. 

"So, how'd you hurt your wrist?"

"School work," Taka sighs. "I was thinking about starting university late. I told my parents and they got upset."

"They're just worried. The workforce is shit." By shit, he means ridiculously competitive. Kids like Taka have some skin in the game, but even so, a gap year could hurt his odds. Daiya is sure he already knows that. 

"I don't-" Taka bites his lip, as though to stop himself from speaking. His mouth spills open. "I don't want to do it anymore. I don't want to do any of it."

Daiya knows exactly what that means. 

"C'mon, don't say that," Daiya tries, he squeezes his hand. Is it hypocritical of him to offer reassurance? "You're eighteen, kid. You got your whole life ahead of you."

"So did Mondo."

Daiya can't argue that.

Taka is still, he doesn't blink, he doesn't speak. Daiya waits for him to do something, but the kid is frozen. Daiya considers leaving him again, but isn't sure more privacy is what he needs.

"C'mere," he says with a curl of his finger. Taka flinches. "C'mere, I ain't gonna bite 'cha." 

The mattress groans as Taka moves closer. Daiya leans in to fill the gap between them. The kid blushes when he does that.

"Hi," Taka greets. He's cute.

"Hey," Daiya replies, it's more a hum in his throat than an actual word. He sucks the end of his joint, then releases the smoke with simple instruction, "Try this for me, alright? Open your mouth. Now breathe."

Taka does. His eyes squeeze shut as he politely coughs into his fist. He wipes a stray tear from his face then blinks back at Daiya, already taking another hit. The biker blows out the stream of smoke, it gently coils then fades, as Taka seems reluctant to try again. Daiya grabs his chin, holds him with his thumb and forefinger, then takes a deep drag before returning the secondhand smoke again. It's all in poor judgement. Taka hides his face, pulling away to cough and tremble, overstimulated by the touch and the smell, and the all of it.

"Sorry, kid. I'm sorry, I wasn't tryna hurt ya." He rubs circles into his back. "Stop fightin' it, just relax, alright?"

"I have a headache," he sniffles.

"I'm sorry," Daiya says again, discarding his joint on the nightstand. He pets the kid's head, apologetically. "I know you're stressed. I was just tryna help."

Daiya strokes his head in comfortable repetition. Taka melts into it, sinking closer and closer to the older man, until they're practically chest to chest. The kid rests his head on Daiya's shoulder, moans softly against his skin. Neither of them should be this touch starved.

The downpour returns, it comes from nowhere, all at once, beating a harsh rhythm into the side of the apartment. To Daiya, it seems like a warning, a yellow sign of caution he will refuse to heed. 

He grabs Taka at the waist and spins him, presses him into the mattress, the same way he's done a dozen times on a dozen regrettable nights. Taka is unsurprisingly docile, he goes wherever he is taken, he shifts to accommodate Daiya's body, his size, his weight. When he is kissed, he cries out anxiously, but returns it all the same.

Daiya hooks his fingers beneath the band of Taka's sweatpants, but he doesn't pull. He wants to, he imagines how good that heavy weight on his tongue would feel, but he doesn't. He just kisses him, instead. When he hesitates, when he pulls away, Taka pulls him back. Daiya feels the kid grind up against him and it takes everything he has not to rip his clothes off.

"Don't do that," he warns with a dangerous chuckle. His tone startles Taka, innocent of most wrongdoing. "If you do that, I'm gonna fuck you."

Taka goes red. He tries covering his face, but Daiya pulls his arm down, just as Taka brings it up. The kid stutters, he looks like he might cry, faced with the reality of what's happening. 

"I'll stop," Taka squeaks. Daiya runs his palms down the sides of his ribcage to the curve of his hips. 

"You wanna stop?" he purrs, eyes drooping with want.

"I don't know what I want," Taka shakes his head. He turns to watch the rain, as though the storm will aid him in his indecision. Daiya nips at his exposed neck.

"You ever let an older guy fuck you?" Taka whines when he asks that, Daiya knows why, he can feel him getting hard. He kisses the skin beneath his ear and the kid shudders as he clamps down, all teeth and tongue.

"N-no," Taka whimpers. His toes curl as he writhes, somewhere between discomfort and arousal. 

"Shit," Daiya groans. He admires the bruise before kissing the kid heavy on the lips. "I could make it so good for you. I know you could take it. You're such a sweetheart."

He takes his time kissing the kid stupid. His erection twitches, but he struggles to maintain it, despite being so turned on. He touches himself through his pants, eager for any kind of relief. He wants to be touched there, thinks he can bear the momentary embarrassment of Taka discovering his broken dick. He undoes the loose drawstring of his sweats and pulls himself out. Taka grabs him, wraps him in a firm fist, and begins stroking him slow. Daiya's mouth falls open with a hungry, pathetic sound. He coaxes the kid into lifting his hips and yanks his pants down, grabs him, strokes him. 

Daiya makes a hundred promises to Taka he may never get to keep. He's saying _I got you, baby._ He's saying _I'll take care of you, now._

Taka gazes up at him with dewy, love-drunk eyes. Daiya knows what the kid is seeing is an illusion. What he sees is a similar face, a younger face -- a very dead face. His guts feel tangled up, because he knows Mondo should be the only one to see Taka like this. At least between the two of them. It feels like an invasion of privacy, it feels gutturally wrong.

A crack of thunder startles them both, so powerful it seems to shake the apartment and maybe all of Tokyo. Outside, a car alarm blares, becoming part of the stormy symphony. Taka clings to Daiya, somewhat fearful, but the man hardly notices. The loud noise triggers a response in his brain and it's happening again. The terribly long screech of rubber on concrete, the metallic crunch of the bike, the wet, hard slap of -- of what, he knows what. It is an auditory nightmare. 

Mondo is angry at him. He is watching from wherever God decided to spit him -- and he is fucking pissed. Daiya is supposed to be the older brother, the responsible brother, but this goes even beyond that. This is betrayal.

"Are you alright?" Taka asks, his voice just above a whisper.

"Yeah," Daiya lies. "Just tired."

"Me, too," Taka sighs. Daiya doesn't recall falling to his side, but there he is, and the kid curls closer. Daiya plops a limp arm around him, holds him, draws him in. It reminds Daiya of when he held his intoxicated mother, practically rocked her to sleep. His mother on the couch, his father in the kitchen, his brother on the ceiling. They say there aren't any haunted places, just haunted people.

In the morning, he pours an old pot of coffee then heats it in the microwave. It goes down hard.

"I don't want to go home," Taka says, swallowing a dry piece of toast. They're in the kitchen, when did they get here?

"Then stay?" It comes out as a question. He's confused. He doesn't remember falling asleep.

"I can't." Taka appears perfectly lucid, he chews his breakfast, he knows exactly where the spoons are kept. He hands one to Daiya, but the man can't remember asking. For his coffee? Right.

"Last night," Daiya starts and hopes Taka will fill in the blank. The kid gives him a questioning look. He loses his grip on the utensil and it clatters onto the counter. He tells Taka to forget he said anything.

Daiya rummages through the dryer and finds Taka's hoodie. He expects the kid to excuse himself to a separate room, but he strips right there, unstraps his wrist brace and leaves it on the couch. Daiya tries not to stare, he watches the television on mute, failing to decipher any of it. Taka pulls the hood over his mess of hair and fiddles with the drawstring. He forgot to look for the hickey. 

"You ready?" Daiya squeezes his shoulder and gives him a shake. Taka peers up as he defeatedly leans into the older man. He nods.

Taka patiently waits by the door as Daiya searches for his keys. He finds them in a pile of musty clothes on the floor. His stomach turns to knots at the sight of it, the unmistakable color of old blood on his jeans. He dives his hand into the front pocket and scoops out his bike keys. As he leaves the apartment, he spots the bouquet of flowers perched on the windowsill. Daiya cannot recall placing them there. They should have never left the kitchen. 

"Did you move these?"

"No."

He'll let that haunt him later.

He never wears a helmet, but today he clicks one on. Mondo was doomed, had he worn a helmet, he still would not have survived the punctures, the tears, and the overall trauma to his body. Although, maybe, his head would have exploded a little bit less, maybe his face would have been a little more recognizable, not that mangled mess of red and bone. There is no crueler moment. The indignity of a shredded corpse. Daiya finishes wiping the dust and tosses a spare to Taka. He hops on the bike with a lot more grace than expected, doesn't hesitate wrapping his arms around Daiya. 

They take the scenic route and it prolongs the drive. He hasn't touched his bike since Mondo died. When he left the apartment for a trip to the pharmacist, he took the train. For the first time since middle school, he rode the train like everybody else. He figures, in Tokyo, more people die in train related incidents than motorbikes. He should be afraid of the train, or more specifically, the seductive whisper of the platform ledge, but it's the bike that scares him. The trill of a motor isn't fun or exhilarating anymore. The noise is loud and grating and rattles his eardrums.

Daiya turns onto a residential street. He barely recognizes the shoebox house, but Taka's body language confirms it, going tense upon seeing his family home. As the bike rolls to a stop, Taka's father emerges from the front door. He probably heard the thing from across the city.

"Kiyotaka!" his father barks. Even from a distance, Daiya can see the unhappy wrinkles of his face. "Get inside."

Taka bows his head to Daiya and thanks him. He returns the helmet and says his goodbye. The kid scurries to the door, bows an apology to his father and disappears into the house.

"He's upset," Daiya shrugs with a fake laugh, trying to take the edge off the situation.

"He left without a word." Takaaki is unamused. Daiya barely knows the guy, but knows the guy doesn't like him. They met once, maybe twice a year ago, and Daiya had no real problem with him, but could smell the bullshit of his pleasantries from a mile away.

"He's mourning." Daiya knocks down his kickstand. He moves to the rear of his bike and flicks open the trunk. It's large enough to stow away the spare helmet, but not much else. Takaaki crosses his arms, as though threatened by Daiya's presence. 

"He's reckless. This has been happening for a long time, even before-" he stops himself before he can speak ill of the dead. Daiya would have liked to hear him try. Of course a guy with a kid like that needs a scapegoat. Mondo was a troublemaker and Daiya isn't delusional, he knows his brother got into some shit, but still. In a firm voice, Takaaki decides, "You are to never see my son again."

"Hey, man," Daiya raises his hand defensively, but grins all the while, "my brother was good to your boy, but I get it. That's your baby. You're just lookin' after him."

"Please, leave," Takaaki politely demands.

Daiya notices Taka in the window.

"Would ya give this to Kiyo? He forgot it." Daiya fishes for the wrist brace inside his jacket pocket. When Takaaki sees it, he doesn't recognize it. Either he is blind or ignorant. "He's in pain."

He thinks about crashing his bike on the way home, really weighs the pros and cons of it. There's a nice spot behind the main road where he could curl up with a warm mouth of blood. He could scrape his nose to cartilage, he could shatter his teeth and be completely unidentifiable. He could sleep in a freezer before being tossed into a communal fire, scorched with an anonymous farewell. He could be gutted then burned to ash, just like his brother. He could perish twice. 

When Mondo was two, he chewed on a piece of glass he had found on the floor. Daiya was twelve and almost had a heart attack. He fished the shard out of his baby brother's throat, careful not to cut him as he squirmed. Their parents were drunk while that happened and Daiya never breathed a word of it. He never told Mondo, either, not when he was older and could understand. He had rescued his little brother, but only once, only that one time, and that one time wasn't enough. He wonders. He dwells. _I couldn't protect you after that._ He thinks. _Once I pulled the glass from your mouth._

From the east, there is a storm cloud that once lived in the ocean and it is hovering above the city. Some pedestrians raise their umbrellas in preparation; others do not. This will pass. Daiya drives by the exact spot where Mondo had died, he does it without meaning to, his brain is on autopilot and this is where it takes him. The sky booms, the rain falls, the wind blows. A monsoon always passes.


End file.
